


Two Worlds Collided

by Bittah_Wizard



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bad History, Explicit Sexual Content, God is a character, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Read into that what you will, Reincarnation, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Steter Week, Suicide, Violence, What even is an accurate timeline, and a complete dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 09:42:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20468966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bittah_Wizard/pseuds/Bittah_Wizard
Summary: It was always meant to be Stiles and Peter.Always.





	Two Worlds Collided

**Author's Note:**

> Steter Week 2019. August 2. My pick? Soulmates! 
> 
> I kind of galaxy-brained this one, y'all, not gonna lie.

This is the story of how the first pair of soulmates came to be.

It starts with Stiles and Peter. It ends with Stiles and Peter.

Fuck, the middle is all about them, too.

Okay, basically, the whole thing’s about Stiles and Peter.

After all, it was always meant to be _Stiles and Peter_.

_Always._

* * *

The manifestation of soulmates may start with them, but this story—if you want to get technical—does not. In fact, it starts with nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

And then there’s a bang. A big, create-the-foundation-of-the-universe kind of bang.

And then there’s space and time and Earth and water and sunlight and dirt.

And a garden.

In this garden, walks a lone creature.

It’s a _he_, this creature.

He’s tall, strong, and in the prime of his life. His skin is tan and he can feel bristly hairs growing on his chin. He’s the first of his kind—the first of _any_ kind—and he’s ever so curious. And ever so lonely.

“Can I have another like me to talk to?” he asks his Creator one day.

They consider his request, whispering into the winds, “You would like another?”

He smiles up at the blue sky and nods. “Yes. Someone else—someone just for me.”

The Creator mulls it over before replying, “I’ll see what I can do.”

He—Adam, yes, _Adam_ is his name—is happy with this answer. At least he is, up until three days later when he’s missing a rib and a stranger is standing next to him.

“What the fuck?” Adam growls up at the sky, clutching his throbbing chest. “A little warning would have been appreciated.” He glances over at his new companion. It looks _sort of_ like him, but it’s missing some dangling parts and has way too much hair.

“I’m Eve,” the other creature tells him with a sunny smile.

“Eve,” he repeats, skeptical. After all, it stole his fucking rib.

“For you,” the wind whispers. “It is another, like you asked. A _she_ just for you.”

Adam forces himself not to scowl—he’s learned the hard way that dissent makes the Creator angry.

_I asked for another like me, _Adam muses, taking in, again, the _complete lack_ of dangling bits. He breathes out a sigh and decides to make the best of it.

It takes all of four hours before Adam realizes this just isn’t going to work.

Like, _at all_.

But he continues to engage, knowing that the Creator is keeping a watchful eye on him and his new companion. Adam lets her talk his ears off about just how wonderful the flowers and the grass are, about how their Creator is wonderful, how the air is wonderful, how _Adam_ is wonderful.

It’s all so very…_wonderful_.

It makes him want to scream. She wants to know nothing. He wants to know _why_—but he has no idea where to go from there. He’s stuck in his head with a niggling, important question, and he has no way to push forward. He has no way to answer the one question that constantly plagues him.

It’s maddening.

At least it is, up until a month later, when another creature appears in the garden.

It looks like him—well, not _exactly_ like him—but it’s definitely a _he_. This new guy is paler than Adam, with smoother skin and muscles. He lacks hair on his face and he stands tall enough to look Adam right in the eye.

His eyes are the color of the dirt beneath his feet, and for some reason, it’s the most comforting thought that Adam has ever had.

“Hello,” says the guy.

Adam walks closer until they’re standing nose-to-nose. “Hello. I am Adam.”

“My name is…” Brown Eyes looks around, confused. “Huh. I guess the Big Kahuna didn’t give me a name.”

Adam looks him over curiously. “If you were not complete, why did They send you down?”

The Other One cocks his head. “They were getting frustrated. They want to see more of us, but it was meant to happen when you and,” he waves a dismissive hand in Eve’s direction, “the _woman_ copulated.”

Adam scrunches his nose. “What is _that?_” It doesn’t sound pleasant.

Brown Eyes shrugs. “I don’t really know. I overheard Them talking about it. They made me so that I could take your place. Apparently, you aren’t acting fast enough—or grateful enough.”

Adam scoffs. “Well, go right ahead. She’s as dull as tree bark.” They both glance over at Eve, who’s been sitting and staring at a single rock for the last hour.

The new guy cringes a little. “Yikes.” He looks back at Adam. “I don’t really want to replace you. I’m just super excited to be here!” He smiles, the edges of his mouth stretching wide. “How far have you explored? Do you know what kind of tree that is? What language are we even speaking—I have _literally_ no idea! Isn’t that amazing?!”

Adam blinks, dazed. And then it’s like his mind reboots. He focuses on this new friend, the one without a name. The one that asks more than _why?_

He watches as his New Best Friend walks over to the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and he holds in a laugh as New Guy starts to poke at the dangling fruit.

“What is this?” Brown Eyes asks.

Adam wants to know—he’s always wanted to know. But he was always too scared of the consequences. The warning that the Creator had given him still whispers in his ear, reminding him to follow the rules.

That warning had limited Adam.

So he doesn’t give one to his new friend.

Adam leans against the trunk and shrugs. “I don’t know. Why don’t you try it out?”

Brown Eyes looks at him like Adam has just given him the greatest of gifts. Plucking a ripe fruit from a low-hanging branch, New Guy says, “What a wonderful idea!” He rips it open with his hands, fleshy seeds spilling to the ground. A dark red juice stains his fingers, and Adam smells something sweet fill the air.

Brown Eyes hums as he takes a bite, eyes starting to sparkle with something Adam can’t quite identify. He offers half of the fruit to Adam. “Would you like some?”

Adam looks around the garden, at the plants and the dirt and Eve.

He feels nothing.

Then he looks back at No Name, and the thing that thuds in his chest starts to beat faster and faster. He doesn’t look away as he takes the offered fruit. “Thank you—I would love some.”

And then he takes a bite.

* * *

Annoyed by Their creations—Adam and the One Without a Name—for eating the fruit and escaping the Garden (with Eve in tow), They decided to take one of them from the Earth.

They decided on the one that should never have been made.

They watch as Adam mourns his friend, as he and Eve bury his lifeless body.

They know that Adam now understands exactly what _consequences _are, and so They are pleased. They are pleased when Adam does his duty and brings new life unto the world. Cycles of life continue, giving rise to the first generation of people—yes, _people_.

They even transport Adam’s and Eve’s souls Themselves when it is the mortals’ time to go.

Years pass, and They are pleased.

That is, They are until No Name’s soul escapes—much in the same way it did the Garden—and Adam’s follows closely behind.

It is then that They have the awful, sinking suspicion that it won't be the last time those two souls escape the immortal realm. 

And so with a sigh, They just sit back and watch. 

* * *

_2742 B.C.E., Egypt_

“Oh, _fuck!_” Mischief screams, spine arching as Adam takes him roughly from behind. The sound of their coupling, wild and wet and desperate, echoes throughout the bathing chambers.

Adam, whose name in this life—in the time before he truly awoke—was Peribsen, drags a possessive hand up Mischief’s back, fingertips tightening around his Beloved’s neck.

He feels every keening whine—every filthy, guttural moan—vibrate against the palm of his hand. The jeweled rings adorning his fingers shine beautifully against Mischief’s pale skin.

Mischief sinks further onto the reed mat below him, shoulders hitting the floor as the sheer pleasure of their fucking courses through his body.

At a particularly rough thrust, Mischief groans and rolls his head to look back at Adam. “So _this_ is copulation,” he breathes unsteadily, words slurred and eyes blurred. “Is it always like this? Was it like this when you did it before—when you did it with Eve?”

Adam growls and smacks one of Mischief’s rounded cheeks. The boy yelps and clenches tightly around Adam’s cock—and then it’s _his_ turn to groan.

“It was never like this,” Adam confesses, eyes unable to look away from where he plunges in and out of his lover. He pulls out and flips Mischief over, sprawling out on top of him and blindly burying his cock back in its rightful place. “It’s always been you, sweet Mischief. Once I understood this act, I thought of nothing but you. I have waited centuries for this.” Adam hooks Mischief’s ankles over his shoulder. “We were meant to be, you and I.”

Mischief locks eyes with Adam—his first and dearest friend—and shudders as the man’s words cement themselves true in his heart. He pants, mouth soft and open, as he stares up at Adam—a man, that up until two hours ago was only Seth-Peribsen, ruler of Egypt.

Up until two hours ago, Mischief had been only a slave—one still without a given name.

Then the Pharaoh had toured the city’s eastern construction and locked eyes with No Name. They had both drifted towards one another, strung along by an ache in their minds and a rapid beating of their hearts.

Each man had looked so strangely familiar to the other—so _known_ and _unknown_ at the same time.

And then Peribsen had reached out a hand and lifted the slave’s chin for a closer look.

At that simple touch—at the slightest brush of skin on skin—they had each remembered.

Where they had come from, what they had done, who they were—who they _are._

Adam-turned-Peribsen had snatched him from the work-site and stolen him away to the palace, where he proceeded to kiss No Name within an inch of his life.

They had held each other close, minutes ticking by until No Name had pinched Adam’s butt.

Adam had taken one look at the sparkle in No Name’s eyes—the very same glint he hadn’t been able to identify before—and dubbed him, “Mischief.”

Adam got his cock sucked for that.

So here they are, hours later, moving together in the most pleasurable of dances. 

Adam wraps Mischief’s cock in a tight grip, working him closer to the edge. “You will be mine in this lifetime, Beloved—and in every life hereafter.” Mischief gasps as Adam grinds into him. “Promise me, my Mischief.” Tears work their way, unbidden, to the corners of his eyes. “My heart beats only for you. I cannot go on without knowing you feel as I do.”

Mischief sinks his hands into the Pharaoh’s hair and pulls him down until their lips touch. “You have me, my love. I stole you away and I’ll do it again and again. You were right—we’re meant to be. Nothing can erase that, nothing can change it.” And then Mischief cums, Adam’s lips at his throat and Adam’s cock in his ass.

Adam pounds into him again and again, until all he can do is cry out in absolute bliss.

As they breathe in each other’s air—their skin slick and their spend slicker—both men fall quiet, and then quite deeply in love.

* * *

_44 B.C.E, Rome_

“Et tu, Brute?” Julius Caesar gasps out. That knowledge—that wicked image of Marcus plunging a knife into his stomach—makes it feel as though his friend’s blade cuts much deeper than the rest. He reaches out, falling to his knees before the roomful of assassins.

His bloodied hand catches ahold of Marcus’, forcing the man onto the ground beside him.

And then they both shudder.

Marcus cries out, the sound wretched and filled with absolute agony.

“Not our best cycle, is it my dear?” Julius gurgles out, eyes drifting shut.

Marcus screams, startling back the other senators. “NONONO_NONONO—!_”

“I forgive you,” Mischief whispers, the words using up his very last breath.

And in his grief, Marcus Junius Brutus kills nine more men that day—all before taking his own life, his body lying wrapped around that of his fallen Beloved.

* * *

_343 A.D., Somewhere along the Incense Trade Route_

Fouad strokes a calming hand across his lover’s shoulders. “Wake up, love. It is only a dream.”

Felix opens his eyes, focusing on the low murmur of his Beloved’s voice and the sound of the sand moving across the desert. He sighs as his breathing slows, the familiar orange canopy of their tent putting him at ease.

“You were gone, again. Never to return.”

Fouad curls into Felix’s chest. “I will always return to you—never doubt that.”

“I don’t doubt you, my Mischief,” Felix whispers. “It’s everything else that worries me.”

* * *

_1005 A.D., Nottinghamshire, England_

“Again,” Lord Henry Kennsington demands, legs spread wide as he sits in his fur-covered chair.

His manservant, the ever-faithful and always-devious Malcolm Winstead, slowly rises up on his knees before shakily sitting back down.

“Sire, I cannot—please, h-have mercy! Not again!” Malcolm begs, naked thighs trembling as he squirms in his Lordship’s lap.

Henry noses at his Beloved’s temple, reveling in the tight clench of Mischief’s ass around his cock. He’s taken the boy three times already this night, and he can’t help himself from pushing for a fourth.

He reaches around and grips both of Mischief’s cheeks, spreading him wide for the mirror facing them—the achingly sinful image of them joined together ramping up Henry’s desire further.

He trails a worshipful finger up Malcolm’s spine, watching as the boy’s skin turns rosy in the firelight, ardor and exertion peaking.

Malcolm’s eyes roll back in his head as he rides his master. His toes curl and his breath hitches. His whole body begins to shake as Henry begins to hammer against that special place inside.

Henry can feel when his lover comes untouched. He can feel his Beloved’s body grind against his own. He can feel the boy’s asshole gape and release helplessly around his cock, the hot smear of Mischief’s cum dribbling out onto his chest.

He hugs Malcolm closer, scooting to the edge of his seat for leverage before fucking up harshly into his Beloved.

He pistons into the boy, mindless in his rapture. Henry takes and he takes, glorying in his lover’s pliant body.

After several of those mindless minutes, Henry cums with a satisfied moan—the sound causing Mischief to grow alert and gasp, instinctively rocking steadily in time with Henry’s final sloppy thrusts.

“How is it,” Mischief hiccups, slumped against his master’s chest, “that _that_ gets better every time?”

Henry can’t help it—his satisfied moan morphs into a shaky laugh. “Practice.”

They fall asleep, tangled together in that chair and snorting with delirious laughter.

* * *

_1629 A.D., Paris, France_

“Don’t pout, my love! I meant no offense!”

“Then why did you laugh?” Pierre grumbles, bottom lip protruding.

Reynard bites his tongue and sets down his newspaper. He composes himself before taking another long look at his partner. “You must admit, chère, that it’s a little too...poofy.”

Pierre scowls and pats the billowing plumes jetting out from his, admittedly, poofy hat. “It’s supposed to be like that.”

Mischief tries to hold it in, but he can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes him. 

Fed up, Pierre pushes back from the dining table and stomps out of the room. 

“Don’t be like that!” Reynard calls out after him, mouth still curved in a shit-eating grin. “You wear it well, darling! It’s a lovely, lovely poof _mon chère!_”

* * *

_2011 A.D., Beacon Hills, California_

Stiles can still hear the music from the gym. It seems to be mocking him as it pounds away in time to his stuttering heart. He can’t take his eyes off of Lydia’s limp body, the edges of her pretty dress mangled and blood-soaked.

He falls to his knees next to her, reaching out to check her pulse—and then a claw-tipped finger lifts him from under his chin.

And then he remembers.

Stiles forgets all about vendettas and Alphas and hunters—and even mauled red-heads. He blinks once. “Took you long enough.”

Peter chuckles darkly, gripping Stiles’ chin tighter and pulling him close. “It’s always my fault, isn’t it Mischief?”

Stiles grins and presses their lips together gently. “Yeah, usually.”

“Oh, you little brat,” Peter growls, running a hand down Stiles’ leg. “You just earned yourself a spanking. A minute in and you couldn’t help but sass me. You’re in for it this time.”

“Of course I am,” Stiles laughs wickedly. “This time.”

**Author's Note:**

> This one goes out to all of the people that use that "Adam and Eve, Not Adam and Steve" bullshit. 
> 
> My [tumblr](https://thebittahwizard.tumblr.com)
> 
> The song that inspired this story? [Never Tear Us Apart](https://genius.com/Paloma-faith-never-tear-us-apart-lyrics) by Paloma Faith


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